The Savage War Read online

  by

  Esther Wallace

  The Savage War

  The Black Phantom Chronicles (Book 1)

  Copyright © 2018 Esther Wallace

  Cover design by Mark Gerber

  Cover illustration copyright © 2018 Mark Gerber

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Books published by Emerald Lake Books may be ordered through your favorite booksellers or by visiting emeraldlakebooks.com.

  ISBN: 978-1-945847-05-9 (paperback)

  978-1-945847-06-6 (ebook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018964890

  For my dear sister, Lia,

  even though you may

  never read Arnacin’s story.

  Cast of Characters

  Arnacin

  An islander and the protagonist of this story.

  Bozzic

  Arnacin’s father.

  Carpason

  Lord of Tarmlin, first Miran friend of Arnacin.

  Cestmir

  A Miran duke.

  Charlin

  Squire to Lord Carpason.

  Charlotte

  Arnacin’s sister.

  Cornyo

  One of Duke Cestmir’s knights.

  Darien

  A councilor to Miro.

  Erlund

  Another councilor to Miro.

  Firth

  Son of Gagandep.

  Gagandep

  An adopted native and a skilled healer.

  Garak

  A Miran earl.

  Hadwin

  A Tarmlin knight.

  Krisno

  A councilor to Miro.

  Memphis

  High Councilor to Miro.

  Miro

  King of Mira.

  Raymond

  Arnacin’s childhood friend.

  Rosa

  Princess of Vemose, neighboring kingdom of Mira.

  Samundro

  A Miran sailor.

  Sara

  Valoretta’s nurse.

  Shashidha

  A native boy.

  Tevin

  Arnacin’s childhood friend.

  Valoretta

  Princess of Mira and heir of Miro.

  Voninath

  Master swordsman.

  Wilham

  Captain of a rowing vessel.

  William

  Arnacin’s younger brother.

  Prologue

  DUST BLEW INTO THE AIR as Arnacin’s father, Bozzic, carefully brushed his hand over the crackling parchment. Beside him, his son watched, eyes round with wonder and anticipation.

  “Do you remember, Arnacin,” Bozzic almost murmured, “the day you convinced a group of older, rowdy boys to cease their mischief? That was the first time I thought this had been saved because of you.”

  “What is it?”

  Slowly unrolling the parchment onto the table, Bozzic replied, “My father gave this to me on my wedding day, as he received it on his. The fear was, I suppose, that we would run off if it was given to us before wives kept us accountable.”

  As Bozzic finished flattening the parchment out, Arnacin stepped near, beholding the faint scratches of an ancient plan. “It’s a ship,” he breathed after a second.

  “Yes, it is the only documentation of an ocean-faring vessel in all of Elcan. See how different it is from the coastal vessels you grew up with? It has been passed down from father to eldest son since its creation nearly a thousand years ago. This is the best representation anyone could make of the enchanters’ ship as it was carefully ripped apart, beam by beam. And now, it is yours, to recreate the ship drawn here or to save it for your first son.”

  Brow furrowed, Arnacin looked up at his father. “Why are you giving this to me now?”

  Sinking into the nearest chair, where he could look his son squarely in the eyes, Bozzic placed his hand on Arnacin’s shoulder. “I believe this was made for a purpose and that it came to me for a reason, as have you. You might only be eleven, Arnacin, but you are marked with leadership in your humility, compassion and intense feeling of responsibility, whether you are responsible or not…” He smiled. “Yes, even in your pride you show leadership—nothing can make you surrender unless you are completely convinced it would be wrong not to. If it stopped there, I would just think you will make one superb father and villager, but it doesn’t. There are your stories.

  “So, Arnacin, why don’t you tell me why almost all your stories are of men and women who frequently die for honor, love and complete dedication to righteousness?”

  “I don’t know. The stories just come and I tell them. If other stories did come, I don’t think I’d find them worth telling. But if there was a reason… I guess—I guess I want to be those men. I want that test of trust in the Creator’s authority and power, and I want the triumph of knowing I did not fail.”

  “If I asked you today to pick a career on this island, which one would you choose?”

  His gaze moving toward the open door and the village beyond, Arnacin inquired, “Must I?”

  “If you can picture yourself as anything here, what would it be?”

  After a long silence, the boy nearly pleaded, “There’s nothing… costly. It’s all… village life.”

  “If you think there’s nothing important, Arnacin, you should remember that we have no government here. We need each other to keep us all accountable to morality, to provide every aspect of village life and, if ever it’s needed, to supply our own defense. Is that not service enough?”

  “Father, I…” Arnacin sighed. “It’s too easy. Where’s the triumph in that?”

  Nodding as if he had known the answer long before he asked, Bozzic concluded his pursuit. “Then if you could pick a career out of all the ones you know exist, what would it be?”

  Somber blue eyes flicked to Bozzic, yet they roiled in churning thoughts—thoughts that were likely far too serious for a boy Arnacin’s age, yet needed to be thought.

  “A martyr,” the boy eventually replied, causing his father to bark in laughter despite the fact that it had been said with the deepest amount of conviction.

  “Oh, Arnacin,” Bozzic sighed. “That is the last thing I would ever want for you.” Despite the pain that joined that fixed gaze, the seriousness did not waver and, leaning forward until their eyes were only an inch apart, the boy’s father asked, “And if that option were given to you, would you take it, even if it meant separating yourself from your family for as long as you lived?”

  Sinking into those dark pools in his son’s eyes, Bozzic read the full understanding of the question, the knowledge of the sacrifice, and also the sincerity as Arnacin slowly nodded.

  Straightening, Bozzic rolled the parchment back up. Placing it into his son’s hand, he exhaled. “Then it is time, Arnacin, we prepare to send you to sea. Only out there will you discover the reasons you were given all your passions and talents and yet were not born in a place that could use them.”

  Arnacin grew while he and his father, along with his younger sister and his closest friend, Charlotte and Raymond respectively, toiled at building a sea-worthy ship. Just as the ship neared completion, his father died.

  Suddenly, Arnacin held responsibility as man of the household, a task that halted any voyage for life. Darkness descended on him, a darkness of lost hope and emptiness, until the day Charlotte and Raymond secretly pulled him back into finishing h
is ship, thereby rekindling a hope that stirred in the depths of his now fifteen-year-old heart…

  Chapter 1

  The Runaway

  SLEEP REF USED TO COME FOR Arnacin of Enchantress Island. Beside him, his brother’s warm, toddler body was a sticky reminder of what he was about to abandon. From the other side of their one-room home, he could easily hear the whispered conversation between his mother and sister as they finished drying the dishes.

  Their words were the only barrier between him and the guilt, fear and anticipation pounding through his veins. He was leaving. It had to be tonight, lest he lose the courage to ever leave his family. Even after his mother fell asleep, he lay there, staring undecided at the toddler beside him. As usual, William slept with his fist in his mouth.

  It had not been uncommon for Arnacin to be suddenly whacked in the face at night by that wet fist. This night, he just shook his head, whispering so low that he hardly heard his own words as he used his mother’s fond name for her youngest. “Farewell, Bluefire. I don’t know when I’ll return, but I know you will not be the same when I do.” With sadness and love, he ran his fingers through the thick black hair on top of the toddler’s head, and slipped off.

  Arnacin jumped as he nearly ran into Charlotte, who stood in the doorway. She, however, only turned silently and he led the way to the ocean, where the small ship awaited him.

  Charlotte did not speak until they stood by the water, where moonlight cast over them in an almost eerie light, like the last glow of a funeral pyre.

  “Arnacin,” she called softly. She paused uncertainly as he turned to her before smiling innocently. “You know how I hate you.”

  He did not answer, but stared off to where the moon shimmered across the sea.

  “Why must you go?” His sister’s teasing suddenly broke loose into temper. “While I’m told I can’t because I’m a girl, you know you will be told the same thing for another reason! That is why you are sneaking away in the black of night like a criminal!”

  Turning to her in surprise, he snapped back, “Were you not the one who insisted that I had to go, that I was meant—called—to leave, when I said I couldn’t?”

  “Not like this!”

  Nodding in comprehension, he jibed, “You’re just jealous.”

  Charlotte flicked her head hotly. “Perhaps I am jealous. Jealous that, unlike me, your bow is not your truest companion. But more than that…” she released her temper in a long sigh. “I have the feeling I will never see you again. We fight, I rebel, but I love you anyway.”

  Those words pierced him with a sick feeling that even then he knew he would never forget, but he answered, “I will return, I promise. If I’m out there so much as ten years, it will be excessive. Besides, my leaving will give you the freedom you want. Someone has to look after the sheep. Raymond promised to take care of anything else Mother can’t. Who knows, in a few years, you might not even care,” he shrugged, “…when you’re married.”

  She laughed, a sound of deep hatred and malice bubbling out of her. “I’d murder the first person who tried making me.”

  Arnacin stared at her in disbelief. Was she the same girl who stroked William’s head at night and rocked him to sleep, who drifted silently through the woods alongside wild deer?

  “Charlotte, I would never betray you or Mother or William, but I need to go. You know how it calls me, its mystery and…” His voice dropped off as his gaze sought the open sea, whose whispering waves sounded like a beckoning. Turning back to his sister, he implored her, “I’m nothing here. Father thought this adventure would reveal my purpose. As long as I stay—”

  “I know,” Charlotte whispered. She glanced away. When she looked back with a forced smile, her voice was commanding once again. “Go. Find your meaning.”

  Arnacin briefly threw his arms about her before climbing aboard his small ship. He did not dare tell his young sister to wait until the right man came along, for on that day, he was sure, she would be only too happy that she had not set sail with her brother. He simply wished for her heart’s healing.

  Arnacin’s original thought was, by allowing the wind to guide the ship wherever it would, he would soon hit land. Obviously, many lands existed. Yet summer’s warm winds turned cold. Storms blasted the ship, tossing it about. Still, Arnacin persevered, caring for his vessel as much as he knew how, marking down each day as one less to travel, all the while calling himself an optimistic fool. Only his need to succeed kept him going, while he watched his stores shrink.

  Finally, he again traveled through warmer seas. If it was not technically spring back home, he still thought of it so. With fewer storms, he spent his days on deck, cheered despite the small amount of food left.

  One especially warm day, he slid his arms under his head and closed his eyes against the brightness of the sun. There he dozed until thick rain drops slapped him awake.

  Dark clouds blew overhead, leaving him only seconds to move. As the black spray lashed, Arnacin slammed the cabin door shut against the storm. His last image of the outside world was that of enormous waves amid the crack and roar of thunder.

  Throwing his blanket around his shoulders, Arnacin could still imagine the sky spilling its evil contents into the dark abysses that the waves formed time and again. The sea thrashed in torment from the biting hail, driven by the whim of the wind whipping about it. Caught without aid inside those rearing whirlpools of water, his ungainly little ship careened through the waves that forced it onward with unrelenting demand.

  In the background, he could hear the creaking and groaning of the ship, a sound so inferior to the might of the tempest. With every heave, Arnacin braced himself between the wall and his bed to keep from rolling around the floor like the objects that were doing their own clinking dance as they knocked into each other. Yanking the blanket more firmly around his shoulders, the boy sighed in frustration.

  How long had he been out here? He had lost track. Several weeks, a few months, half a year, a little bit more… It did not matter. Day in and day out, it had been the same constant routine, now only altered by the lack of food and water and, of course, by the current storm—only the fifth during his voyage. Still, nothing had broken the endless sight of sky and water. His book, created for navigation purposes, had become a mixture of navigation and doodles of sheep, wooded mountains, and cloud formations. At least his constant sketching had replaced his artistic ineptitude with a tiny bit of skill.

  The ship lurched onto its side. Slammed into the bed, Arnacin could feel the ship rise upward, a sensation like it was about to leave the earth entirely, and then… he was thrown off his feet, his back hitting wood while his pillow, blankets and other objects rained about him. Something broke with a loud crack and Arnacin looked up just in time to see water rushing in from every crack around the door, the cabin stairs now above him.

  In a flash of reflexes, the islander shot to his feet, ignoring the deluge of unyielding saltwater as he fought his way to the door. It would not open or budge for the pressure heaving against it, yet the water had already filled the cabin to the boy’s waist and was still coming, raining down over his shoulders and head, swirling about his ankles.

  He felt his feet slip from the force against them. With a splash muffled by the roar of water, Arnacin seized the only option left to his panicked mind. Rising into the disappearing space between the new roof and water for just a second, the boy drew air, coughing up the water he had swallowed. Inhaling as deeply as the rising water would permit, he plunged back into the torrent, clawing for the cracks between the slats of the door.

  As he felt the swirling of the water decrease around him, he knew then that his cabin had become a large fish bowl, without air pockets. With one last futile yank as the burning in his lungs shot to his head, he felt the wood give way beneath his fingers. Desperately, he kicked upward, bumping his head into something hard. His ship’s deck blocked his escape and blackness started to descend. Only the waves rescued him, sweeping him from ben
eath the ship. Surfacing, he gasped, just catching his foot on the rail so as not to be dragged away.

  There, waves pouring over him, he shivered, spluttered and choked. The storm threatened to rip him from his hold however, while his ship continued to float like a giant, overturned basket.

  Arnacin dipped back beneath the surface, finding one of the trailing sail lines. It took several submerges to twist it around the top of the rail, fighting constantly against the waves. Then, with fingers too stiff to work anymore, Arnacin climbed onto the bottom of his ship with the assistance of the waves, slid down the other side and found another sail line.

  Using the last of his ebbing strength, he once again gained the bottom of the ship, now armed with both ropes, and tied himself to the boat. His mission finished, he let the darkness envelop him.

  In the early hours of the following morning, sunlight beat onto a sandy spit escaping the wooded coast. For the first time since dragging himself there earlier, Arnacin painfully stirred. He trembled in the light breeze that ruffled the tangled shreds of canvas on the wreck of his ship, beached nearby. Stifling a cough, Arnacin finally pushed himself slowly into a sitting position, sand sliding off him as he shifted.

  Pulling his sodden clothes about himself, he dropped his chin onto his knees, glaring at what remained of his ship. It lay there on its side, its broken mast dug into the sand as if trying to impersonate a lean-to, its railings and cabin smashed through, stripped by the sea of many of its possessions.

  There was no way around it. Despite the care and logic put into the boat’s creation, Arnacin was stranded. Now, there was no way to return, as far as he could see.

  “Charlotte,” he croaked amid shivering hisses. “Fine, I concede defeat. I can’t return.”